


S.O.S.

by Dusty_Forgotten



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Beaches, Fluff, Humor, Inappropriate Humor, M/M, Meet-Cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-20
Updated: 2015-10-20
Packaged: 2018-04-27 06:16:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5037082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dusty_Forgotten/pseuds/Dusty_Forgotten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A message in a bottle, inappropriate jokes, and a bathrobe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	S.O.S.

**Author's Note:**

> Coordinates provided in prompt: http://awful-aus.tumblr.com/post/127336985757/awful-au-333

“Ouch, Jesus Christ...” Castiel limped a few feet from the scene of the crime and plopped down in the sand to inspect the bottom of his foot. A little cut, but he didn’t see any glass embedded. “Damn litterers...”

With a sigh, he crawled forward to inspect the shattered bottle. Gently, he took shards into his hand, mumbling about the “environment,” and “danger to children,” and, with a particular grumble, “those not wearing shoes.” He took the label, too (because that was one type of paper soaked in chemicals to the point it was no longer biodegradable). An oddity: there was a chunk of unbroken glass _under_ the label, almost like that rolled “paper” (so-called) was... inside the bottle.

For kicks, he glanced at the inside of the label- not expecting anything, of course. It’s not like he’d step on the single bottle on the whole beach to contain a message, like some kind of ironic fate.

_SOS LOST AT SEA. COORDINATES: 36.509761, -121.942023._

Thank God for modern technology; you used to need maritime knowledge or a particular paranoia while hiking to even be able to decode coordinates. Now you can punch them into any Iphone and get directions complete with traffic detours and estimated arrival time- which was 4:41. If he had glanced at the clock, he would have noticed it was 4:39 when he left.

After a good three minutes (longer than it took him to drive there) of checking the message and GPS, he threw his head back against the headrest. “I should have known.”

Ah well, he was there; might as well deliver his own message. On littering.

The beach house had modern architecture, windows on three sides to soak in every view but the road. Compact, designed for a couple without children, or perhaps a bachelor. He admired, and envied the lack of cobwebs in stucco corners.

The door opened, middle-aged man in a bathrobe: a refined scruff on his jaw, deep anger lines on his forehead, but not even the imprint of laugh lines. Oh, boy. While he made this assessment, apparently the other man had been judging him, because the first words between them were: “I’m not signing any petition, I already donate to charity, and I’ve got to warn you, the subject of religion makes me violently angry.”

“There are children on that beach.” he hooked with, just he’d formulated while waiting for an answer to the doorbell. In the face of that opening statement, though, it didn’t have quite the same punch as it did in his head.

“Oh no, which orgy did you see?” He just _dripped_ with sarcasm- and Cas would laugh if he weren’t so busy being pissed off.

“I’m serious!”

“So am I.” he flat-out lied, indignantly. “If it was this morning’s, I’ll apologize, but if it was this afternoon’s, I’m offended by the discrimination against homosexuals.”

It was hard to look furious while trying not to crack up; Cas would guess his expression was something between reliving the death of a loved one, and constipation. He was losing- not exactly sure what the game was, but he wasn’t about to lose it- so he switched to a language upperclass Californians responded to: money. “I was injured stepping on a bottle I have proof came from here. I can sue you.”

“No you can’t.”

“I know my rights!”

“I know the _law_. I’m a lawyer.”

Castiel had lost the argument (and his dignity) with the last line; might as well go out in a blaze of glory. “Shut up, you smarmy British bastard!”

Then something magical happened. The lawyer _laughed_. Cas had just thrown in the towel, and then the other guy threw the fight. He spoke again, but his tone was less harsh. “I waive my fifth amendment right so you can admire my accent.” Castiel chuckled. “Name’s Crowley. How’d you know it was me?”

“Castiel,” he replied politely, “and I read the note.”

“Christ, I never thought anyone would find that.”

“I never expected to find it.”

Hell, maybe it was fate.

“Well,” Crowley started, shifting his stance, “least I can do after you’ve come all the way to this deserted island is invite you in for a drink.”

Cas gave the robe a once-over, and cocked a brow.

“Silly me, how rude. I’ve got one for you, too.”


End file.
